The nose knows that I’m making punny sense about scents

A couple weeks ago, I was involved in a brainstorm meeting at work. I grabbed a marker to start doodling ideas on our white board. Then, a familiar scent hit my nose.

The glorious smell of black licorice.

Zap! I was transported back to Kindergarten at Hilltop Elementary. Singing B-I-N-G-O with my pleasantly plump teacher Miss Barrisford.

I gazed down at the writing instrument in my hand. It was a scented black marker. Ignoring everyone’s crazy looks, I pulled the marker up to my nose and took a deep breath. The memory of that school, the song—more than 40 years ago—became more and more distinct in my mind.

Ahhhhhh!

In a zombie-like trance, I walked over to the other scented markers and began sniffing like my cat inhales luggage after we return from a weeklong vacation. Each distinct smell brought back a distinct vision in my brain.

Cherry.

Zap! Putting the finishing touches on a Santa Claus drawing in Ms. Ramser’s first-grade class anxiously awaiting the bus to leave on Christmas break. 

Blueberry.

Zap! First-grade art class. It was storming outside. Mr. Reithmiller, our art teacher, was showing us how to draw an owl.

Lemon.

Zap! Six-years old sitting in the hot attic of a church in Martins Ferry during Sunday School. I was painting a picture of a sun and clouds. Ironically, no gods or angels.

Then I started thinking about all those other good, bad and ugly aromas that you come across every now and again that gives you a Chuck Norris round-house kick to the amygdala.

Mildew mixed with mothballs.

Zap! Playing tag with my brother and exploring the old, dusty antiques and tools in my Grandma Eimer’s basement in Shadyside, Ohio circa 70’s.

Sweet & sour odor of the recycling canister.

Zap! My high school senior year doing community service at a recycling center in Martins Ferry.  I got busted destroying a nativity scene in our downtown park. That terrible smell singed on my nostrils is a life-sentence memory of my regrettable crime.

Mud, grass, fresh rain, and spring flowers.

Zap! An Easter of my youth—dressed up in my Sunday best dragging a huge Easter basket filled complete with a chocolate rabbit with yellow googly edible eyes.

Fresh-cut grass.

Zap! Football Friday Night circa 1984. I’m preparing to head down to the Ferry football field with my mom to hang out with the McSwords twins, watch the football game—as well as my brother, who was in the high school marching band.

Body odor. Mildew. Fresh Paint.

Zap! Walking into the locker room under the bleachers of Martins Ferry Stadium after two-a-day practices in eighth grade—the first time I ever wore pads to play football.

Dead skunk on the road.

Zap! Heading home from Cedar Point in the dead of night with my family when I was 8 or 9 years old. I was sleeping in backseat and my dad hit a skunk. That smell remained for the rest of the car ride home. It also brings back those not-to-distant memories of a good bag of sticky, stinky college weed.

Most of my memories revert me back to my youth, but there’s always one distinct smell that reminds me of my college years and beyond.

Women’s Perfume.

Every fragrance of perfume is unique—as is every woman I’ve dated. I don’t know the fragrances. I don’t know the brand names. But, I know that distinct smell. And if I catch that certain pleasant aroma as I pass a random female on the street …

Zap! I’m immediately transported back to that particular girlfriend who wore that distinct perfume. They’re all pleasant, positive memories. Just, regular, everyday memories, like sitting in the car, or waking up in the morning, or just hanging in their apartment listening to music and drinking some frosty beverages.

Which brings me to my final story.

I was at some random house using some random bathroom when I came across a canister of Glade Jubilant Rose^® & Lavender & Peach Blossom. Curious, I grabbed the can and sprayed a tiny mist into the air. After a brief millisecond, I inhaled.

Zap! I was catapulted back more than 20 years ago to The Gentleman’s Club Strip Club in Cleveland. The same, exact aroma was emanating off a stripper who was giving my good buddy a lap dance. 

I had turned down this particular stripper because she looked too much like my aunt.